


Bedroom Hymns

by scrapbullet



Series: Entelechy [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Sheer bloody crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:38:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik shifts, sitting on the edge of the bed, all solid weight and stoic protection, and he touches Scott’s head, their son, smoothing his downy hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedroom Hymns

“Christ, Charles, I thought you’d never wake.”

Charles blinks blearily. The world is a haze of pain, and when he reaches outward his control collapses in on itself; strings cut and refusing to cooperate, a dizzy stagnation that leaves him retching.

And then, comprehension-

“The baby-” he tries to sit up, can’t, too drug addled for his muscles to be compliant, and Erik hums gently, cards his fingers through Charles’ hair and soothes. Charles exhales, quiescent.

“The baby is fine, more than fine.” Erik sounds pleased, full of paternal pride, and Charles swallows thickly against the lump in his throat. The child is a wrapped bundle in his father’s arms – _and it’s a boy, it is, Charles can feel him thrumming, vibrant, in the back of his mind_ – snuffles softly, face pink and screwed up as if this new world is utterly distasteful.

Good Lord, he’s beautiful.

“Can I hold him?”

Erik gives him a withering look, thinks, _you ridiculous man, he’s your son_ , and he’s in Charles’ arms then, a warm weight, and when the baby opens his eyes they are blue, so blue, and it takes his breath away.

“He looks like you,” he murmurs.

Erik scoffs; a soft look in his eyes. “What shall we name him, hm? Charles Jr?” He grins then, baring his teeth. “Or perhaps Edward.”

Such humour in the face of such innocence; this child, the child they’d created with their very essence. Tiny fingers stretch, reaching skyward, and Charles snags them, bringing them to his lips for a sweet kiss.

He pretends he doesn’t feel the warmth emanate from Erik. The love.

“Scott,” he decides. “He looks like a Scott.”

It eclipses, and Charles closes his eyes to bask in it. Erik shifts, sitting on the edge of the bed, all solid weight and stoic protection, and he touches Scott’s head, their son, smoothing his downy hair.

“Scott it is, then.”


End file.
